


Howl

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-07-09
Updated: 2000-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-11 02:13:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11139126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: A Diefenbaker tale. :)





	Howl

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

  
"Howl"

WORLD'S SHORTEST DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't sue. 

EXPLANATION: Based on two sentences, spoken by Fraser in the pilot of " _due_ South:" 

"He can't hear you --- he's deaf. He pulled me out of Prince Rupert Sound once, and his eardrums burst from the cold." 

This is a "Diefenbaker tale." :) Enjoy. 

RATING: PG 

WARNINGS: There is some fowl language, including the F-word. There is some violence. And since I could not find Prince Rupert Sound on any map, � I had to make up where it is. If anyone is familiar with it, please forgive my ignorance and feel free to tell me where you've found it. 

As always, all comments, questions, otters and fuzzy huskies are welcome! mailto:kcabou@hotmail.com Thank you kindly!   


Howl

by Kiki Cabou 

* * *

The wind blew snow in his eyes, and it was a crisp, -28 degrees Celsius. Nice day. The man pulled his scarf over his nose and mouth to keep the cold out and lowered his Stetson down, almost over his ice-blue eyes, with a gloved hand. Having successfully made a slit to see through, he stopped squinting, only to get a panorama of white. White ground, a flurry of white in the air, and white trees, painted that color by ice. The wind was mournful. It was noon.  


The man had been walking for some time. He re-shouldered his heavy day pack as he finished his sweep of the area, and he was tired. Another day of waiting and watching for his intended prey. Another day of nothing. Another gruesome find, this time right at the lodge's door. He finally stopped, took one last look around through his slit, and, unable to identify even the hand in front of his face, gave up with a sigh and began to walk back in what he hoped was the direction of the station. 

* * *

The wolf was scavenging along the bank. He'd been following the carribou trail all morning, but had only seen their droppings. He knew that locating the depositors of those droppings couldn't have been that hard --- he was a wolf, after all, and knew this sort of stuff --- but he hadn't seen a single furry arctic deer all morning. It was frustrating, and he was exhausted. He'd hardly eaten in the last week. Winter here was tough enough, but taking care of Misty's kids while she was away was an added challenge. Almost everything he'd brought back had gone to them.   


He explained to himself for the three millionth time that they were just pups, good ones, at that, that they needed the nourishment more than he did, that Misty would rip him apart if anything happened to them, and ordered his own selfish stomach to stop growling. But the fact that he could hear it was unsettling. He always hated the noise it made, not to mention the uncomfortable, squirming feeling he always got; the squeezing and expanding of the organ, the spastic flip-flopping, and the little involuntary ripples of almost-gas that blurped through his belly. Hunger pangs were hell. Speaking of which, where the hell had all the carribou gone? He didn't have a clue. It was like they had vanished into the snow.  


He was lean --- too lean, for this time of year. His fur was still spotless and white, but thinning from the lack of food. His mouth was dry, but it didn't matter. The pups needed meat. He sighed an irritated, hungry wolf-sigh and pressed on. 

* * *

The man turned on his radio. At first it was all static, but after a minute, it cleared.  


"Hello?" the man said. "Hello, base?"   


"This is base. Copy. Over."  


"Base, this is Fraser. I've finished my sweep of the area, and I'm sorry to say I have nothing to report. Over."   


"Yeah, I'm sorry too. Copy."  


"Steve? Is that you? Over."  


"Yeah, it's me. Is it cold out there?"   


Fraser stood still in the middle of the flurrying snow for a second, before it cleared momentarily, leaving him caked in it.  


"Ah, it's a bit nippy. Still not over Ottawa, are you, eh? Over."  


"Oh, you're a riot. And no, I can't wait to get out of here. Now get your northerly ass back here before you catch pneumonia. Don't want you to be sick on your birthday, now. Over."   


"Okay. Oh, and Steve? My northerly ass would need to head southwest, correct?"  


"Yes, Mr. I-know-this-place-like-the-back-of-my-hand, that's correct. Jeez! C'mon, hurry up. I don't want you getting shot by some idiot with an uzi. Over."  


"Well, he's not shooting _people_ , Steve. He's poaching carribou. Over."  


"Fraser?"  


"Yes?"  


"Shut the hell up and get back here. Now. Over and out."  


The walkie talkie broke off into a static crackle. Fraser sighed, took out his compass, and began to head back to the R.C.M.P. outpost, about fifty klicks southwest from his position. He knew that his temporary partner, Constable Steven "Sparky" Briggs, was gruff, but he understood that it was the other man's way of looking out for him and didn't fight it. Long-time friends, they'd gone to high school together at a military academy up north, had entered Regina Depot together and graduated in the same class.   


Steve of the red hair and emerald eyes, of the fiery wit and equally fiery temper. Fraser of the black hair and clear blue eyes, of the subtle wit and long fuse. They tempered each other. And while Steve was only here for a few weeks, as a chance to "get away from it all" and leave his beat in Ottawa behind for a little bit, Fraser was happy to have him. Writing letters just wasn't the same as having the actual person around to tell you to shut the hell up. *No sir, not at all.* He smiled.   


He started walking faster, a little more sure of himself. Steve's jab, despite its intent, was accurate --- he really did know the area like the back of his hand. The lodge was, after all, ninety klicks away from his home town of Tuktoyaktuk, and his daily patrol over the ruthless arctic terrain took several crazy turns. Walking became snowmobiling to town, which became riding in a car through the streets, which became walking again, but he didn't mind. It was home. People still needed help. And he was there, tall and bundled in his furry outerwear, proud to be of service. 

* * *

The wolf wasn't having much success. All he'd been able to find were some hardy berries on the bank. He'd eaten them all, his concern for himself finally overpowering any fathering instincts. After walking some more, he stopped looking and stared out at the horizon of water to the north and ate some snow. He was in a winter wonderland. Perfectly camouflaged by his fur and not moving much anyway, he would have been able to pick off some old, weak carribou like nobody's business, had there been any.   


He stopped staring and kept following the trail, safe in the knowledge that no one from the nearby village would bother him. Tuktoyaktuk was home to a small number of humans that mostly kept to themselves and didn't harm the local wildlife; unless of course if he counted his uncle Skipper, who'd gotten greedy and clumsy and was shot trying to raid someone's food bin in the middle of the night. Poor Skipper was a wall-cover, now. He tried not to think about it.  


He stood on the bank and looked again, desperately whining and looking for some sign of life. The large body of water to the east of Tuktoyaktuk had no name. However, it fed right into the Beaufort Sea, and this orphaned pool of blue and gray was kindly cared for by the local population, as was anything within the three hundred klick radius surrounding their town. The Inuit of the region had their own name for it, which the Mounties of the area (one excepted) couldn't pronounce, so the Redcoats had nicknamed it "Prince Rupert Sound."  


The wolf gazed hard and long over the Sound and wondered how in the hell he was going to find meat this time. Or if he was going to find anything this time. His stomach growled again, despite the berries, and suddenly he felt nauseous, followed by a desperate urge to take a crap. He hurried off into the surrounding woods to take care of business, dizzy, and not really thinking about where he was going. Anything was better than doing it out in the open on the riverbank. There was absolutely no privacy out there! *What would the squirrels think?* As he made his way through the woods, he realized that his state must have been caused by the berries --- they had to have been mildly toxic to be so hardy as to survive this weather. He chastised himself for his foolishness and was thankful that he hadn't brought the fruit back to the cubs --- they might have died.   


As he hunted around, looking for a suitable spot, he almost laughed at the irony. Here he was, starving to death and having to expel the first thing he'd eaten that day. It must have been Nature's version of a cosmic joke. 

* * *

Fraser was feeling like an idiot. Not just an idiot, an idiot all alone in the middle of nowhere. He knew he had read his compass correctly, but the snow was blinding and his instincts told him that he'd been going the wrong way for quite a while, now. But he hadn't listened to them. He also hadn't seen any lights, any familiar land, any lodge, any civilization for hours, and worst of all, he'd lost radio contact with Steve. Steve, who was the only other guy on duty until six o'clock, when the new shift would get in.   


He found the beginnings of a forest and took shelter from the driving wind behind a large, sturdy tree. He sat down, curled his legs up to his chest miserably and looked at his watch. Four o'clock. The sun would be setting soon, and then he'd really be in trouble. Darkness meant no light to see by, which suddenly, he realized, meant being blind and utterly lost. Out here, that meant death. And for the first time in a long time, Constable Benton Fraser, R.C.M.P., was honestly scared shitless. He knew that life in this hostile country was already a gamble, but to cast the die himself, and not in his favor, was a thin stake of ice-knowledge that chilled him to the bone. He'd have no one to blame but himself if he died.  


He knew he had to keep moving --- the temperatures would dip even lower at night than during the day. Standing still was death. He knew he would have to find some recognizable geographical feature of the area. Getting lost was death. He knew he would have to find someone to talk to, even if it was an imaginary friend, or the forest, or something. Being alone was death.   


Also, there was a criminal on the loose. An insane gamesman who was shooting carribou for sport and leaving their bloody bodies near the R.C.M.P. lodge, taunting the local Mounties. A murderer, in Fraser's eyes. A man who was scaring off the remaining carribou, starving the wolf population and the locals, as well. A man who killed for the killing, and nothing more. A wastrel with an enormous ego and a gun to match. A devil who would be caught and imprisoned for his crime. Fraser fingered his own Smith and Wesson, remembering Steve's simple advice if he saw the perpetrator --- "No hesitation, man. Blow him away first." Because out here, even a minor wound was death.   


So. His objectives were: living, making it back, and catching the poacher if he saw him. In that order. It sounded simple enough. Nothing he couldn't handle, right? He'd been doing this for nine years, after all. He stood up, hearing his knees crack from the cold. He bundled his scarf tighter around his face, covering his ears even more, his mouth and nose, and stuffing the ends into his jacket. If nothing else, his clothing would protect him. He shouldered his pack again and uselessly brushed the snow off of himself, just to keep his arms moving. He would fight on, get back, and maybe even get his man. Yes, this time, he was sure. He started walking in the direction he thought was west. 

* * *

The wolf had found the perfect spot, and was just getting ready to do his business, when one step changed his entire life.   


*CLAPCHOMP!*  


He let out a wail of agony as the steel jaw trap, brilliantly hidden in the snow, ambushed its prey, sharp fangs tightly gripping the leg belonging to the foot that had carelessly stepped in it. His. The blood was flowing fast and red down his right hind leg. Crying out, he fumbled for control over his body, only to discover, to his horror, he was urinating and loosing his bowels all over the place. He was too weak and frightened to stop it, and finally collapsed on his side, covered in his own filth, leg twisted in the metal jaws of death, yelping pathetically.   


*The cubs are a zillion miles to the north. They're so small, so strong. I never saw such hope for our kind! I'll never see them again! Misty'll come back and have to feed her children herself, and then I'll have no chance with her, no matter how much she likes me, or vice versa. Hell, her mate's gone! That bastard left her in the lurch. But if I don't make it back at all � she needs someone who can provide, dammit! Not someone who's dead! Mom, Dad --- I know you're gone, too. But I don't want to join you. I can't join you. Not now. Not now!*  


The agony of his thoughts and the blood running down his leg pushed his yell to new decibels. A long, continuous howl rose up from within him and spread over the area in a wave as the sun began to set. 

* * *

Fraser cursed himself for getting so disoriented. He realized where he was, now. He was in the forest right near Prince Rupert Sound, at least seventy five klicks due east of the lodge. He'd completely wandered in the wrong direction, but he wasn't about to blame it on the conditions.  


"Boy, am I an idiot. I wonder why the radio isn't working? Oh, well, no matter. I'll just have to make camp here. I won't be able to make it back before nightfall."   


He sighed and set about looking for a suitable place to camp, when he heard it. A howl. The cry of a wounded animal. *No, scratch that. The cry of a REALLY wounded animal.* He'd never heard anything so loud or resoundingly human in his entire life. It sounded like a wolf --- sort of. There was a bit of dog in the call, too. And it continued, only breaking off momentarily and then starting up again. Nothing was answering it. The creature sounded desperate.  


Fraser immediately shouldered his day pack and crept through the forest, searching for the source of the noise. He had to move fast --- it was approaching sunset, and the available light was dwindling. 

* * *

Still lying on his side, the wolf kept calling out. Humans could only hear his howl, but every other living thing nearby could hear his words.  


"Please! Somebody help me! MISTY!! Anybody! Can anyone hear me! Oh no please no I'm going to die out here don't let me die I love you Misty AWHOOOOOOOOO!"  


He was panting from the effort, and the world was swimming before his eyes. There was a large pool of blood under his leg, and his breaths came painfully, like razor cuts. It was difficult to think. The cold was trying to swallow him. There was frost on his eyelashes, frost on his panting tongue, frost on his fur�   


And then he heard it. A swishing of branches. A crackling of twigs. He was terrified. Perhaps the human (for it had to have been a human) who'd set the trap was coming to take a look at his catch. He would kill him on the spot, with his metal cylinders that spewed out smoke and death. This was it. He was fearful and still, but he couldn't contain the cry.   


But as the human came crashing through the trees and into the clearing where the dying wolf lay, the snared animal managed to weakly look up and recognized him. It was no vicious hunter. It was not the one who had set the trap. It was Blue Glass Eyes, the one who occasionally fed the village dogs, sometimes mistaking him for a dog and feeding him, too. The one with the funny hat. The one with the ever-warm hands. He hadn't seen him in weeks, but he remembered him. If nothing else, it would be good to die in his arms.   


"Rowrrrlll," he said weakly.  


Blue Glass Eyes approached him and knelt, beholding a tattered, crying mass of wide, frightened eyes and fur and teeth, stained with blood, feces, and snow.  


"Oh, dear."   


Something about the look in the animal's eyes held him. He had to do something. He wended his way over to the trap, and, unafraid, put a gloved hand on the wolf's head and patted him still. The wolf, for his part, could do nothing but quiet, so he stopped the noise altogether and began to just breathe. Wild things, from wolves to carribou to ground squirrels and birds, had a way of calming when Fraser was around. It was something indefinable about the man that assisted everything he came in contact with.  


He gripped both ends of the steel jaw trap and yanked it open. A reflex action kicked in and the wolf kicked his leg out of it. The trap clapped shut on nothing and the Mountie tossed it aside. Still bleeding, the wolf tried to stand. He was a mess. He wobbled on all four feet for only a moment, allowing Fraser to see the fact that his ribs were showing, before he fell over on his side again and pawed weakly at the air.  


Fraser watched the pathetic scene. *He certainly has spirit. Maybe if I---*  


Before the wolf properly knew what was happening, there was something tight encircling his leg, and he could feel sharp sticks of pain as it was maneuvered into alignment against something rough. His shoulders slumped and he fell into complete unconsciousness.  


Fraser had stopped the bleeding. Noticing the animal was out like a light, he reached into his first aid kit again. The trap had broken the leg, and as he'd suspected, nicked a major artery. Pressure had done the trick, but now stitches would have to do the rest, as well as a bandage and splint. He grabbed a sterile wipe and got the area clean and free of fecal matter before treating it. Then he took snow and cleaned the fur. By the time he was finished, his body was aching from squatting so long, and it was snowing heavily again, but his charge was clean.   


He quickly packed the kit away, picked up the wolf, and laid the animal down on a tarp he'd spread on the ground --- the bottom of his tent. He set up the roof by hanging a rope between two trees and slinging another tarp over them. He fastened it edge to edge with the tarp on the ground, cleared the snow from the floor and attached the two end triangles to make a tight prism. The tent was strong enough for a night, at least, and clean and dry. Exhausted and unsure of why he'd even followed the call in the first place, Fraser spread one of his blankets over the wolf, who was now asleep and breathing deeply.  


As he curled up in his own sleeping bag, he watched in amazement as his own arm, which he was not aware of having a mind of its own until now, reached over to the wolf and pulled the sleeping creature close to keep it warm. Fraser smiled as he gently scratched the wolf behind the ears. He understood now why he'd come. The two slept dreamlessly until morning.  


When dawn broke, the storm outside had abated, and the Mountie woke to find a pink tongue licking him. He instinctively scrunched his face up and finally pushed the tongue away and opened his eyes. The wolf was staring at him, licking his chops and yawning. He had both his front paws on Fraser's chest and was wagging his tail.  


"Good morning," he said, scratching the wolf behind the ears. "Did you sleep well?"  


"Rowrff."  


"Good. Well, listen. I don't have any food, so here's what I'll do. I'll break camp," he said as he sat up, "and get as far to the west as I can until I'm back in the radio range of the lodge. Then I'll send for a snowmobile transport. Hopefully, they're looking for me by now."  


"Rrrrff."  


He began to pack up and started to take down the tent.  


"Anyhow, I'd best be going. And I think you ought to know, you're in no condition to stay here by yourself."   


"Grrrowff!!"  


"Heavens, you're grumpy! You have to learn not to take it personally. It's nothing against your virility or anything like that."  


"Grr."  


"Yes. 'Oh.' In any case, would you care to come along? I won't force you, but I must tell you that your chances of surviving out here with that leg are very slim."   


The wolf just looked at him, and down at his leg, which was bandaged and splinted. He was leaning more on the other three than that one.   


"And there's a poacher on the loose."  


The wolf was at the door of the tent in a blink. He wagged his tail and panted his request to get out of there. The word "poacher" was synonymous with the word "death," right up there with "hunter" and "extreme cold." Going to the world of men would be different, he knew that, but it was nothing he hadn't seen before. Besides, he was with Blue Glass Eyes. The human who appeared to understand what he said. The human who saw fit to save him and help him. *The most competent being alive,* he decided, watching him work.  


Fraser finished packing up. They walked for hours, until finally the wolf's strength gave out him again and Fraser picked him up, holding him as a sagging, furry, slightly acrid-smelling, skinny mass over one shoulder, like a sack of potatoes. After another few hours, the Mountie decided to use the radio.  


"Hello?"  


"*KKKK* *KKKK*"  


"Hello?"  


"*KKKK---Fraser? Is that you---KKKK?"   


"Yes! It's me! Over!"  


His heart skipped a beat and he began to move faster. The lodge was still a long way away.   


"Fraser, it's Barry! Stay put!"  


"Understood! Over."  


Barry was screaming over the wind where Fraser was. "Listen, Fraser, a search team went out looking for you last night, but no one could find you! Lemme tell you, we all thought you were dead! Steve was pretty torn up! But thank God for small favors, eh? I'll send a snowmobile! What's your position? Over."   


Fraser gave it and Barry signed out. A few minutes later, Fraser put the wolf down in the snow and began to wave his arms, hailing the approaching snowmobile with an ecstatic grin. 

* * *

Back at the lodge, the other men on duty, and Steve, who wasn't, were gathered around the fire. They listened as Fraser, who'd gotten the chair, for once, thanked them for the rescue and explained what had happened. It was a long story. The thick, plaid quilt around his shoulders kept the heat in, and he was finally feeling warm again when he finished.   


"Hell of a way to spend your birthday, eh?" Steve said. "What are you now, eighty nine?"  


The other guys laughed. Fraser laughed, too.  


"Thirty four. But at least I gave that wolf a hand," he said, pointing at the said creature, sleeping in front of the fire, with only his muzzle poking out of the blankets that were covering him. The men had done a good job of caring for him.  


"Wolf?" said Barry. "Hell, Fraze, you blind or something? That ain't no wolf! That's a husky! I've seen him a couple of times around town. I think he's putting the moves on Bob's lead dog."  


"Misty?"  


"Yeah! She's already had a litter by some wolf or something, but he hasn't been around for months. I suspect somebody shot him. Guess this guy figured it was safe to try his luck. Now don't get me wrong, we always need sled dogs around here, but if that critter knocks her up, Bob's gonna be pissed, 'cuz he'll be short a dog for a while."  


"Well, animals are animals. There's not much we can do. But as to this creature being a husky, I don't believe it. As far as I'm concerned, he was out in the wild, and, judging by the consistency of his stools, and the disarray of the area, I think he was trying to hold something in to regurgitate to pups. Wolves do that. Dogs don't. That's all I know."  


Everyone was looking at him strangely. He pulled the blanket off from around his shoulders and handed it to Steve. He stood up.  


"In any case, does he have a name? I'd like to know it."  


"Nope, everybody just calls him No Name," Barry responded.  


"Well, he's not strong enough to be on his own yet. He'll need a few days. Can he stay here?"  


Most of the men responded with "Oh yes of course"s and "I don't mind"s.   


Steve simply said, "Yup."  


"Good. Then when he's better, he'll go back to the wild."  


The others nodded and everybody went about their business. Steve and Fraser sat down next to the wolf. Fraser patted him on the head and his friend examined the animal's teeth gently.   


"This guy's been eating meat. I think you're right, man."  


"Perhaps. All I know is, he needs more than he's gotten recently."  


"Why'd you save him? I mean, these things kill carribou."  


"Only the old and the weak. They keep the herds strong \--- they have a lot of sense. They're graceful, important animals, Steve."  


"I guess. But why did you help this one?"   


"I suppose," the dark haired man replied, "because somehow � I knew him. I wouldn't have left him there for anything."  


The two locked eyes for a moment. Steve nodded and stood up to stretch.  


"Well, I have some things to attend to, and so do you. When he wakes up, we can get something for him to eat."   


"That's most kind of you."  


The redhead waved him off and went to go file some papers. Fraser scratched the wolf one more time and left to get some work done, too. The wolf continued to doze, pretending he hadn't heard anything. The thought of being out in the wild again after this comfort of a warm room wasn't so thrilling. Maybe being a sled dog wouldn't be so bad, contrary to what his mother, a husky, had said to him. She told him about her daring escape from a sled team to mate in the wild with his father, a wolf. She'd hated her life in the world of men, and had strongly impressed that hatred and fear upon her only surviving son from her first litter. "Human" was a dirty word.  


It took him a long time to get up the guts to go into town. But when he did go, he didn't see bloodthirsty monsters waiting to shackle and beat him. He saw little children in the streets, who would shriek with joy when they saw him and pet him. Then something wild would spring up within him and he would consider running, but their doe eyes and cute, little runny noses would banish the thought immediately, and he was content to have his tail grabbed.   


He decided, despite his mother's harried warnings and anger, that humans were all right, as animals went. Even trappers, men from the Yukon who wore warm, furry everything, sporting long beards and hair in every bodily location imaginable, were okay, because they respected the land. But not hunters. They were a different species altogether. They were men who carried big guns and killed things for sport. They were cruel and didn't know why. They were what his mother thought all humans were. But she'd kept the name they'd given her, despite herself --- Rhea.  


He still remembered that day when he was just a pup. He'd woken up excited, because he was six months old today, and his mother was going to go through with the ceremony of wolf culture and officially give him his name. He was curious as to what it was. But when he fully came around, he was alone and the den was cold. He stumbled outside just a little bit, wondering where his mother had gone. Last night she was there, and this morning she wasn't. He looked around for a while, until suddenly, he heard her calling over the hills. It was a chilling howl, and it seemed to be made of one word:  


"KAAAAAAAAASSSSSSS!!!!" she cried, shouting his father's name, Kass, over and over again.   


Without a thought, he ran out of the den and into the deep snow. He growled a puppy growl and fought his way through the powder on fuzzy little legs. His ears pricked up, following the sound until, after what seemed like ages, he reached his mother. She was crying as only a creature who has suddenly found itself completely alone cries; with shock, with anger, and with no tears. She saw him.  


"Look what those bastards did to your father!" she shouted, in a rage.  


He was almost too scared to look, but, morbidly fascinated, he did. His father was stretched out at his full length, strung up on a line by his hind legs. A pool of blood was collecting under him. Nearby, smoke rippled up from a temporary house. He stood behind a tree as everything seemed to happen in slow motion. His mother, in her grief, had stumbled out into the open.  


"Oh, Kass! If I can't be with you, tell me what I can do to help!" she cried, unaware that everything she said would only be understood by her son, not the dead wolf, and not the�  


*BANG* 

*BANG* 

*BANG*  


Hunters. The wolf cub watched, too stunned to speak or cry out, as the unseen killer, hearing his mother's howl and loud barking, took her for a wolf too, and opened fire. The first two bullets ripped through her shoulder and belly, spraying blood everywhere. The last hit her cleanly in the chest and dropped her like a stone.  


He stood stock still for a moment. He could hear the killer approaching, but he didn't know what to do. His mother did, though. With her last dying breath and eyes glazing, she turned her lolling head weakly in his direction and gave him not a name, but an excellent piece of advice.  


"Run, honey! Run! Ohh�"  


She died as he turned around, and he didn't dare disobey her. He ran, on and on, into the forest, as fast as he could. He didn't even want to know what they would do to his mother and father. He didn't want to think about it. He just wanted to get the hell out of that clearing! When he finally stopped, he sat down on his furry little haunches and howled out his sadness and loss to the woods, not stopping until he was exhausted. 

* * *

Suddenly, though, he felt warm hands patting his head and someone making a "Shhh" noise at him. He opened his eyes. He'd pawed the blankets off himself, and realized that he'd actually been howling in his sleep. Feeling foolish for the third time that day, he looked up and took in Glass Blue Eyes, the man he'd heard the others call "Fraser." Fraser just had a hand on his forehead. The wolf immediately stopped the noise, blinked, and licked his chops.  


"Good boy. Good boy," Fraser said. "Are you hungry?"  


Contrary to popular opinion, most canines understand humans better than most humans think. This wolf was no exception. He made some happy growling noises, tried to stand, licked his chops again, and wagged his tail. The splint on his leg was holding.   


"I think that means 'yes,'" Steve said, entering with a bowl of meaty dog chow. "Let's see if he'll eat some of this."  


The wolf dug in with relish, but remembered to eat slowly, because he hadn't exactly eaten his fill that week. But suddenly, it hit him.  


*Oh, no! The cubs! Oh, wait a minute, I can still make it! Yesss!*  


In three bites, he emptied the bowl as Fraser and Steve stared open-mouthed. Then he bolted out the door into the snow before the men could stop him. Steve put his hands on his hips.  


"Well, jeez! That's gratitude for 'ya!"   


"Calm down, Steve. I think I know where he's going," Fraser said, pulling on his heavy coat and gloves. He ran out the door after the wolf.   


"HE?" Steve replied incredulously. But out of curiosity, he pulled on his stuff and followed. 

* * *

The two men were eventually reduced to following the wolf's tracks, but they quickly found him. He was inside an old barn, about a klick from the station, and three cute pups were playing with each other in quarter-full grain bin. They ran up to him, and Fraser and Steve watched as the wolf regurgitated the food he'd just eaten into each of their mouths. With gleeful little barks and yips, they went merrily on their way, chewing and swallowing the chunks of dog food. The wolf, seeing the men, stood up and wagged his tail.  


Fraser looked at Steve a bit smugly. "See, I told Barry he was a wolf."  


"Well, he still doesn't look like one."   


"Yes, but he must have been RAISED as one, or else he wouldn't be doing that. He's a wolf."  


"Whoopee. He just ate into our precious dog food supply."  


But the wolf, sensing near-animosity, walked over to them, albeit limping, and panted at them in a friendly manner. The cubs sidled up to him, seeking the protection of his three good legs, and stared at the men, who looked back. Fraser started to smile at the sight.  


"Oh, no! Goddammit! They're doing it! Shield your eyes, Fraser! Don't look at 'em!" Steve said, covering his own eyes and Fraser's, and backing them both away.  


"Doing what?" Fraser asked, blindly stumbling backwards.  


"The look! They're giving you the 'I want a home for the winter look!' Aaah! Pull too strong! Must get out of here! Noooo!"   


Steve released Fraser, turned and jumped into the grain bin. The other Mountie laughed. "No one says you have to take them, Steve! I'll give them a place to stay."   


Steve popped up, his hair covered in alfalfa. "WHAT? Fraser, we can't share the station with four wolf thingies! It's crowded enough with all of us as it is!"  


"Oh, but come on! They're friendly. And when they need to go, they'll go. They're wild animals, not pets. Besides, this one is injured."  


Steve sighed and fell back into the grain. "I'll be in here if you change your mind."  


"I won't, but thanks anyway. I'll see you back at the station. C'mon, you guys!" Fraser hailed the wolf and the cubs, and they followed him back to the station house. 

* * *

The cubs and wolf ended up sticking around for five days, until the cut on adult's leg was fully healed and his strength was back. On his last night, the Mounties of the lodge, having grown quite fond of him, Fraser included, decided to name him. The wolf was overjoyed at the prospect. He'd never had one before. He had to wait a while, though. It was Saturday night, and after an hour of most of them getting drunk and Fraser mutely staring off into space, no one had come up with any good ideas, until finally�  


"Hey!" Steve suggested. "Okay. Fraser, you found him, you name him."  


Everyone seemed to agree with that, but Fraser was having trouble coming up with a name. So he took a good, long look at the animal, who was sitting politely on his haunches, listening to every word, and hoping for an interesting moniker. * "Wind Chaser," or maybe "Sly," or something like that, would be nice,* he thought.  


"Diefenbaker," Fraser said with decision.   


*WHAT?!*  


The other Mounties started howling with laughter. "Diefenbaker! Yeah, that's a good one! He looks just like him!" someone said, and they kept giggling, faces red with drink and amusement.  


"Fraser, what the hell kind of name is that for a wolf?" Steve said, laughing despite himself. He'd taken a liking to the critter too, and hated to see it saddled with such a stupid name.  


"Well, he needs one, it can be shortened to 'Dief,' and it has an interesting ring to it. It's musical. And it's different. Like him."  


The others stared at him for a second like he was nuts, before returning to their guffaws and knee-slapping. One guy was laughing so hard that he was finding it difficult to breathe. But Diefenbaker, newly christened, was fairly pleased, given the circumstances. He realized the compliments in what Fraser was saying. Besides, "Dief" sounded much better than "Sly." He let out a happy bark to let the humans know he approved, and Fraser patted his head.  


An hour later, the local doctor came by on request, because all of their handmade splints had begun to break on Diefenbaker's leg. He told the Mounties that the leg would need a cast, but otherwise he'd be able to run around as usual. Fraser held him still and Dief growled as the doctor packed the leg in plaster, and a few minutes later, Fraser and the others released him and the cubs back out into the wild. After three months, they could catch him again and remove the cast.  


Fraser stood at the door of the lodge and watched the four of them run off into the night, back to the old barn, and wondered if he would ever see Dief again. He seemed to be okay with the cold --- not terribly happy, but not particularly fazed. His thoughts kept drifting back to the poacher, though. He was still out there --- they were getting two carribou carcasses, horribly mutilated, flung at their door every day now. It was intensifying, as were the snowy nights. Some back-up from Inuvik had been called in. The area around the lodge and near Tuktoyaktuk was being fully scanned, but so far, no one had picked up anything. No signs. The search was getting frustrating. And perhaps even more frustrating, no one could catch the person in the act of leaving the bodies.  


As he stood there, he wondered if perhaps the lunatic was hiding somewhere else. Every time the carribou had been found, it had been snowing. So the snow could have hidden snowmobile tracks and footprints. There was a definite possibility that whoever was doing it was off by himself in the wilderness. He kept pondering until the cold forced him back inside. 

* * *

A week passed, of scans, and gruesome discoveries, and no interception. Even the constant surveillance by the Mounties couldn't catch the perpetrator. But Fraser wasn't on the same page as everyone else, who was bitching in the squad room about the frustrating aspects of the case. He was sitting alone, in his chair at his desk, wondering about the trap.  


His mind was racing, in an attempt to remember its details. He remembered its large steel jaws, and the chain, and� *Wait a minute. That was the startling feature about it. The jaws were huge, much larger than was needed for what it caught. That's why it broke Dief's leg. My God. How could I have been so blind? That trap was set for a carribou! Prince Rupert Sound!*  


"Prince Rupert Sound!" he blurted out loudly, startling the shit out of everybody. Barry spilled coffee on himself and cursed. Steve flung his papers all over the place in a spastic fit. Joel tripped and fell over.  


"W-What?" Steve said.  


"Prince Rupert Sound! The trap that caught Dief last week was set for a carribou! Right in the forest around the Sound! Nobody's looked there. That's probably where the poacher is. I say we form teams and go looking right now, before another animal gets killed needlessly."  


The others looked at each other, with half-closed eyes and raised eyebrows, the epitome of "Yeah, right." Fraser was prone to some pretty crazy ideas, and everyone knew it, but this one had to be the craziest. Besides, Barry wasn't interested in listening to the guy who'd just made him stain his pants, and he was the sergeant. The big man. The one in charge. Everyone else in the squad was still a constable.  


"Look, Fraser, I uh, I appreciate your input, but let's not get carried away, here. So you found a carribou trap. It's no big deal. Anybody could have set it."  


" 'No big deal?' Sir, with all due respect �"   


"That's enough, Fraser. The answer is no. I've spent too much of our valuable time and money chasing this guy. We'll look around this area for a few more days, and then that's it."  


"We're just going to let him go free?"   


"We don't even know if it's a 'him!' Now, Constable, I understand the kinship you have with this area, being born around here and everything, but they're just carribou! This isn't a murder investigation!"  


"No, it isn't! But it WILL be once someone starves to death! For heavens sakes, sir, the people around here rely on the carribou! The wolves rely on the carribou! The whole AREA relies on the carribou! If they go, it's only a question of who's going to follow first!"   


Barry hung his head with a sigh. He liked Fraser, he really did. And he knew, deep down, that the man was right, as usual. So he gave in.  


"All right. I'll dispatch you and three other people. You can go take a look around the Sound. Report back every hour. I'll make sure you guys get the long-range radios. You have twenty four hours to find something. If you don't, the investigation, as far as we're concerned, is officially closed. Is that understood?"   


"Yes, sir. Thank you kindly."  


"You're welcome. Who do you want to go with you? And you have to exclude me. I have to stay here."   


"Ah, yes. Well, let's see." He turned to the others. "Um, Steve, Joel, and Harper. I mean, if all of you are willing."  


They had already been nodding at his hypothesis, chorused "Oh yeah," "Sure thing," etc. and started to get their gear on. Arctic gear is pretty heavy stuff \--- warm long underwear, very thick socks, water-proof outer-garments, heavy jackets and gloves, strong boots, wool mufflers, and of course, the arctic beaverskin Mountie cap, with the flaps pulled down over the ears and tied under the chin. Taken all around, it's at least ten pounds of clothing. It took them about a half an hour to dress. 

* * *

Soon they were whizzing over the terrain on a pair of two-man snowmobiles, making their way to the Sound. Steve drove, and Fraser sat behind him. Joel and Harper were on the other one. Unbeknownst to them, Dief heard them leave and decided to follow. He wasn't that speedy, with one of his legs in that annoying cast, but he kept pushing. The pups were asleep, and Misty would be there in the morning. Time for satisfying his curiosity. He limped after the snowmobile tracks. It was starting to snow again. But the cold was refreshing. He felt his body growing harder. He felt the weather toughen the skin on his chest as he drove on.   


The men burrowed through the forest until it thinned near the banks, and Fraser got off of the vehicle. He drew his weapon, cocked and ready in one hand. Steve nodded and turned on his lantern. The other two men did the same. One had the firepower, the other had the light. They settled down under the cover of some trees and set up their base camp, a small tent, and covered the snowmobiles with fallen debris. They'd be impossible to see. It was starting to snow harder. Fraser made a note of their position and quietly radioed it in to Barry. They were ready, their bodies set taut as bowstrings in their places, waiting for the slightest movement. It was eleven o'clock. Fraser realized for a moment how insane this was, staking out a riverbank. But lives were in jeopardy, and his hunches were rarely wrong. This was his home turf, and he knew it better than anyone else on the team.  


It was 11:16 when the twig snapped. Fraser's sensitive hearing picked it up before the others, and he silently ordered them quiet. All the lights in the tent went off. The men shut up, hardly breathing until they heard what Fraser had a few moments before. Footsteps crunching through the snow. Human footsteps. And since all the trappers were required to let the R.C.M.P. know where they were, and no one had radioed this in as their general position, it had to be their man. Or something else. The footsteps approached the tent, thoroughly camouflaged by fallen snow and leaves and what not. The men inside were silent as death. They had no idea what they were going to run into.  


The footsteps passed the tent, and everyone breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Fraser felt his weapon, nodded at everybody else, and stepped out into the night.   


And walked right into the poacher.  


Who happened to be startled out of his wits at bumping into another human being. He took off like a crazed lunatic, yelling and screaming, waving his weapon, swearing, and running like the devil.  


"In the name of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police! I order you to stop!" Fraser hollered at him, but it was too late.   


The poacher already a good ten yards on him, and was widening the gap. Fraser muttered and ran into the tent. Steve handed him a flashlight and he took off after the poacher. Steve and the others got up and ran off after him, taking their flashlights and guns, sighing and wondering how they always managed to get suckered in by this guy. 

* * *

It was a wild and crazy night. The Mounties were here, the poacher was there� and no one was getting much of a glimpse of each other. Fraser was running himself ragged, and realized, to his horror, that at six o'clock in the morning, after hours of running around in the dark, stumbling over things and hearing lots of gunshots, that he was exhausted and completely alone. He couldn't give away his position by yelling, because he didn't know if the poacher was alive or not, but he had no idea where anyone else was.  


Dief, meanwhile, was about a klick away from the riverbank.  


Fraser looked around desperately, getting his bearings as the sun began to rise. He did the only thing that made sense to him at the time --- he moved toward the water. At least he would get a better perspective on things. There'd been an awful lot of ammunition exchanges last night. None of it had come from his gun and none of it had ended up near him, but still, it was hard to tell if anyone had been hit. Or worse, if everyone had been hit. He edged his way into the thinning foliage around the riverbank, and prayed his friends weren't dead.   


A sigh escaped him as he leaned up against a tree, but the familiar crunch of footsteps caused him to look to his left. He saw the poacher, equally dazed and tired, stumble out of the woods. Quietly, the Mountie drew his weapon. He would get the bastard this time.   


Dief was half a klick away.  


Boldly, Fraser ducked out from his cover. Putting his sharpshooting skills to good use, he fired once, knocking the gun out of the poacher's hand. He edged toward him, gun ready.   


"You son of a bitch!" the man shouted at him, holding his whiplashed wrist. "What the hell do you think you're doing, shooting at me? This is my land! I can do what I want here! You can't do this to me!"   


"Wrong!" Fraser shouted back. "This is MY land! And MY home! And for the past month, you've been wreaking havoc on the lives of everyone in this area! So you have two choices, sir! Surrender peacefully, or DIE!"  


The words were meant to scare him. Fraser wasn't about to shoot anybody. Fortunately, the tactic worked, and the perpetrator raised his hands. Cautiously, the Mountie approached, gun still up. He got around behind him.  


"Good choice," he said, in a much quieter tone.  


Unfortunately, that was all he got out. In the midst of reaching for the handcuffs, he lowered the gun a little bit, just enough for the perpetrator to backhand him in the face, knocking him on his duff. The gun went flying. In a second, the poacher was on top of the Mountie, and Fraser got to see the guy up close and personal.   


He looked like an ogre and smelled like a trapper, not to mention the fact that his mental state was highly questionable. His nose was crooked, and he had a few scars on his face from fighting with large animals. One eye was a murky blue, but the other was brown. His hair was shaved so close that it was bald in places. He was also two heads taller than Fraser, and about a hundred pounds heavier.   


He successfully pinned the slim, lightweight Mountie down in the snow and watched him grit his teeth, wriggle, and squirm. He always loved this part of the kill the best. Putting one huge hand on Fraser's neck to hold him, and pinning the officer's legs down with his knees, he used the other hand to reach into his pocket and pull out his bowie knife. He brandished it. Fraser's eyes widened and he let out a choked scream.  


"Errrraaaaugh!" the poacher hollered, as he raised the knife to plunge it down into some vital organ.  


But he didn't count on his adversary. One of his knees slipped off of his prey, and Fraser took that half a moment to fight dirty and knee his opponent in the groin. Needless to say, the guy dropped the knife. Fraser grabbed it, rolled out from under him, and picked up a gun. In mute terror he fired at the guy, but all his weapon made was a *click-click* noise. He'd picked up the hunter's gun --- which was conveniently empty.   


"Darn it!" he said, turned, and threw the gun out of the way.   


Unfortunately, when he spun around, the hunter was back up, holding the Smith and Wesson, which still had almost a full clip in it. Fraser dove into the woods as the madman opened fire, emptying the gun in his general direction, but missing by a mile. With all the bullets on either side spent, all either had were their bare hands. Then Fraser made an enormous mistake. He stepped back out into the open without looking.  


The poacher angrily pounced on him, and the two went flipping around, each trying to wrestle the other to the ground. Finally they made it to a standing position, and still trying to best the other, managed to maneuver themselves dangerously close to the icy edge of the bank. Fraser was clearly outmatched.   


Dief burst through the clearing at the last second, barking his head off, and almost got his human friend killed. Poor Fraser turned and looked at him, quite distracted for a second. The poacher however, did not, and took the opportunity to smack the Mountie really hard across the face. Stunned at the blow, Fraser hardly noticed his three groggy companions making their way to the bank, pulling tranquilizer darts out of their behinds and rubbing the sore areas.  


But he DID notice when the poacher lifted his limp body high above his balding, ugly head, and made to heave him into Prince Rupert Sound. He reared back with an inhuman yell, and there was nothing Fraser could do but what he did.  


Grab his opponent's collar and hang on for dear life.   


The poacher flung him into the icy waters of the Sound, and gave a tremendous scream as he got dragged in after his victim. The Mounties watched in horror as the surface of the water became very still. Dief raised a howl. Steve grabbed his radio.  


"Barry! Mayday! Mayday! We've got an officer in the Sound! Repeat! We've got an officer in the Sound! Fighting with the perpetrator! Send help! Quick! I think the dumb fuck is trying to drown Fraser! Over!"  


"Copy, Steve! I'll send the air chopper! Now you listen to me! You play the hero, and you're a dead man! Stay with the other two! You fall in, your clothes will weigh you down and you'll die! Is that understood?! Over!"  


"Yes! Understood! Copy! Over!" He turned the radio off. "Shit!!"  


But suddenly, some bubbles appeared on the surface. In an enormous splash of water, Fraser surfaced, gasping for air, fighting furiously with the poacher. The large man had his hands around Fraser's neck.   


"Aye aye aye!" Dief barked, yipping crazily and running along the bank.  


This human had saved his life. It was only fair that he should try and do the same. But what could one wolf do against freezing water and an enormous man?  


Fortunately, the latter problem solved itself. Dief and Steve surveyed the scene frantically, each wanting to propel himself into the water and help. Fraser was weakening, but the poacher was freezing, barely moving. After a beat, he sank into the water. Steve and Dief were both relieved, but then horrified as Fraser began to lose consciousness, and sink as well, as if he had some weight attached to his already heavy clothes, which, having been ripped in the recent fray, were getting saturated with the cold water.  


"Fraser! NO!"  


*No! Fraser, no! You can't --- I can't let this --- Dammit! Hang on, man! I'm coming!*   


Dief let out a wolf wail, ran back to give himself a runway, then shot forward toward the bank as fast as he could, bounding off of it, broken leg and all, with an acrobatic leap. Steve and the others stood there, mortified, but he didn't notice. His own howl roared in his ears, and he heard his mother's scream, his father's last pathetic yip, and the squealing of the cubs. Doing this for a human was treason, as far as he'd been told. But it didn't matter. If he couldn't see this human alive again, nothing would matter, anymore.  


He hit the Sound with a slap and dove through the surface, deep into the icy water. He held his breath and swam around for a frantic moment, until he saw Fraser, about three feet beneath the surface. The man's eyes were closed, and his face was as ice-blue as the water. His body was limp, and there were no bubbles coming out of his mouth. Then suddenly, he saw the reason his friend was sinking. The dead poacher's body was hooked to Fraser by the belt.  


Nothing drove through him so strongly as to bite that connecting loop and wriggle it loose, so he did. It came apart in his jaws with a snap. The poacher was disconnected from the Mountie, and his body kept sinking into the depths of the Sound like a heavy stone. Dief was never so glad to see one human die and one human live.   


Fraser's body was now free to be pushed up to the surface, and he started to nudge up against the man's back, but for a moment, he had to stop. An awful pressure was building up inside his head. He hadn't even considered the cold until now, but realized that the cast on his leg was wet and ice-crusted, that his limbs were shaking, and that his thoughts were becoming fuzzy. Then suddenly, something exploded inside his skull in sweet release. He drove on and pushed Fraser to the surface.   


An explosion of ice, water, man and dog announced that the divide between air and Sound was breached, and Dief blew out a long-held breath. But instead of hearing the sky, the water, and the noise of the humans on the bank, all he heard was silence. Even the howl in his ears was gone. There was nothing left.   


Steve saw Fraser surface just as the medical helicopter landed. He and the others raised a cheer for the crew's arrival, but more for Dief, who was dog paddling towards shore, dragging Fraser by the collar like a rag, through the icy water. Steve knelt on the bank and grabbed his friend. The paramedics laid him on a blanket and started CPR, while the two other Mounties helped a frosty Dief out of the Sound and began to rub him down with a warm towel.   


He was so excited by the rescue that for a few minutes he just felt his heart beating and didn't realize what had happened. He saw the paramedics cutting Fraser's shirt open, one pumping on his chest and the other breathing into his mouth, but he couldn't hear their conversation. He felt the wind in his face, but couldn't hear it's whistle. And when Steve leaned in and said, maintaining eye contact, "Good boy, Dief! Good boy!" it was all he could do to try and respond with a yip, because he couldn't hear him. He knew he was growling a "Yes," because he felt it in his throat, but he couldn't hear it at all.   


"Good wolf. Very good wolf," Steve mouthed at him.   


Dief ignored the terror of the silence, licked the Mountie's face and ran over to see what the paramedics were doing. After six minutes, Fraser was still down. But the paramedic blew one more time, and Fraser sputtered to life, coughing and gagging on an awful lot of water. One medic turned him on his side, and he spit some of it onto the ground. Finally he coughed his airway completely clear and was turned on his back. Steve and the others ran to join the scene as one medic covered Fraser up to the neck with a blanket and helped the other set him on a gurney and strap him down. They started an i.v. and began to wheel him to the chopper. Dief followed next to the gurney. Fraser turned his head weakly, locked eyes with the wolf, and in an instant, judging from the animal's still damp appearance, understood what had happened.   


"Thank you," he mumbled, and passed out.   


Dief, quite alarmed by this sudden turn his human had taken, uselessly barked. He felt someone patting him and looked up at Steve, read his lips and just caught the word, "Hospital." 

* * *

Fraser spent a day and a half in the hospital recovering from the strangulation attempt, the near drowning, and the hypothermia from the cold water, but quickly returned to his post, with doctor's orders to take it easy for a few days. He was perfectly willing to do that, he decided, as he made the trek up on the back of a snowmobile, bundled up and tired.   


Dief also had a doctor's order of staying by the fire for a little bit, and staying still, as the doctor had to re-cast the leg. The old plaster had gotten way too damp in the Sound to be of any use. But after telling the doctor that Dief was a very polite creature, Steve mentioned the fact that he had tried to call him when the animal wasn't looking at him, and he didn't respond. The doctor noted that, got out his instrument, and took a look in Dief's ears.   


When Fraser arrived that evening, everyone was very glad to see him, and immediately set up a place for him on the sofa by the fire. But behind the happiness was an unreachable melancholy, lurking just beneath the skin of their tired faces. Fraser was puzzled about it until Steve finally told him. They were sitting in front of the fire, and Steve had decided his hands were fascinating. Fraser was exhausted and not prying by nature, but he had to know.  


"Steve, what's the matter with everybody?"   


The other constable looked down into the flames before replying. "Well, Fraser, it's like this. We've got a hero on our hands."  


Fraser stared at him, puzzled.  


"Only problem is, he's deaf."  


"Who are you talking about?"  


Steve sighed. "Diefenbaker. After the accident, I tried to call him when he wasn't looking at me, and he didn't respond, so I had the doctor take a look at his ears."   


Fraser was staring at the floor.  


"He's absolutely deaf as a post, man. The doctor said that his eardrums couldn't take the temperature in the Sound, and they burst from the cold. � I asked the doc if he was any good for a wild thing anymore, and he said no way. He said ol' Dief wouldn't last five minutes out there alone and deaf. I'm so sorry, Fraser. He obviously wanted to be your wolf, and I think he's gonna have to be, now."  


Fraser nodded. "Mm."  


"So, what are you going to do?"  


Fraser paused to consider.  


"Well, I think I'll give him a place on the sled team and a spot by my fire. He'll have plenty of friends around here."  


Steve was pleased, but began to laugh. "Fraser, I know you'll take care of him. But how are you going to make him understand you properly?"  


The other man smiled, and his eyes caught the firelight as Dief bounded into the room, wagging his tail crazily and jumping on his human in excitement.   


Fraser scratched his wolf behind the ears and said, "Easy. I'll enunciate."  


The End 


End file.
